Bad Boy's Cinderella: A Sports Romance by Alexa Wilder, Raleigh Blake Page A

against his chest, where his heart beat hard enough to match mine. “I know it’s quick, and you don’t have to say it back, but I need you to know that I’m fighting for something real here. You’re my life now. Fuck, I even want to be better for you. Stop flying off the handle so much. Stop solving my problems with my fists. You did that to me, do you know that?”
    I could barely speak, let alone process everything he said. All I could do was give in to it, at last—give in to the expanding bubble of emotion in my chest, the warmth of love in his eyes. Blink back my tears and say, “But I’m from such a different background. My family has no money, never had.”
    He coughed a wet sounding laugh. “I’ve got that covered a thousand times over.”
    “My life’s a mess.”
    “So I’ll help you clean it up.”
    “My dad’s in prison,” I said, sobering a little. His smile was still soft, full of compassion.
    “I know. Did you think it would make a difference to me?”
    I kissed him. There was nothing else I could do. I kissed him, and I poured every ounce of feeling into it, everything I couldn’t say.
    Kissed him until I felt fused with him, until he pushed me back and I met a wall. Kissed him until I was drunk on it, head spinning, and he pulled back and breathed, “God, I’ve wanted you so bad this whole time.” But I didn’t want him to speak anymore. Now was not the time for words—I wanted to act, because I’d craved his touch for days, since I’d had a taste of it at his house, not nearly enough.
    And maybe I was still a little bit drunk, but this was an empty restaurant, and I had the whole night free, no demands on my time and nowhere I needed to be. And he wanted me, so very much. His movements were so possessive, hungry, as he touched me, as he kissed me, and I could tell he was trying to keep things vaguely respectful yet he could barely manage, with his hands never straying from the small of my back, but I was way past that point. I wanted him, all of him, and I was going to take everything I needed.
    “Sit down,” I mumbled against his mouth, before pushing him towards the nearest chair. He fell into it, expression glazed, a groan hitching in his chest when I nudged his muscled legs apart and kneeled between them.
    I never had a taste of him that night, too caught up in the many ways he brought me to the blissful heights of climax, but I had him at my mercy now, and he was fisting his hands in my hair as if he could barely handle it.
    I wasted no time undoing his fly and freeing him, too desperate to draw this out—maybe later, in a bed, I could take the time to learn the shape of him, everything that made him tick. But for now, I just wanted to make him fall apart in the quickest, most satisfying way possible, so I took him in my hand, stroked along the hard length of him, then brought him to my lips.
    He hissed at the first touch of my tongue across the damp, glistening head, his hand raking in my hair—not trying to control my movements, but just holding on.
    The taste of him exploded across my taste buds, made me whine low in my throat, shuffle in closer on my knees and feed the length of him into my mouth, sucking eagerly, bringing my other hand down and through the opening of his pants, palming his balls, feeling the smooth heaviness of them.
    It didn’t take him long to lose his semi-polite hold on my hair—he gripped me tighter and started rolling his hips up to match my rhythm, thrusting into my mouth, gagging me almost, going deeper and harder the more I took it, and I let him know I wanted it, wanted more of it, moaning around him and squeezing his balls and fisting the base of his cock, dragging my tongue along the underside and sucking hard.
    His hips started jolting in sporadic, uncoordinated movements, knocking the head of his member against the back of my throat, making my eyes water with exquisite pressure, and I knew he was close, could feel it in the shake of his